March 30, 2009

So there you are, say, commuting to work, and you are in a mellow mood. Talk radio doesn't sound good. Local stations mostly suck, and besides, your nerves don't want to be jangled today.

So you, you know, put the local light rock station on your car radio.

There you are, driving and thinking and listening to easy listening music that dates back a few years. Ok, more than a few years. A few decades, really. And you know all the words. You remember when that song was top ten. You recall when you heard it coming through your all in one turntable/radio unit with the dial drift and the scratchy single speaker.

So there you are, listening. Then, say, maybe a schlocky 1970's love song comes on. One you haven't heard in a really long time. And so you think "wow...what ever happened to THIS embarrassing song..." but then you listen to it a bit more, and you hear the words. And you are touched.

You think, "Well, but for some totally seventies arrangements, this is a really beautiful song."

So you're driving along, hearing the words, and thinking of the one you love most. Say, your fantastic spouse...and you hear these syrupy love words and you think to yourself "yes! Yes that too! Oh! And that other sentiment is *totally* my sweetie."

And then maybe you cry a little bit. Not sadness, but because you've just heard words that totally encapsulate how powerfully you feel for that person who agreed to share their life with you.

It gets you right in the chest, and you let some tears roll down your cheeks and smile because you know you are the luckiest person in the whole wide world because you somehow found this amazing person who sees past your flaws and loves you anyway.

And you feel humble and unworthy but powerfully fortunate, like you won the lottery and the World Series all in one.

So then the song ends, and is followed by some more recent bit of clanky 90's attempt at music, and the tears dry up and you take your exit to get to work, and a knobsack in a green Honda cuts you off. And so you call Honda boy a name worse than knobsack and drive on and you sniffle and you laugh at yourself for being such a sappy old fool.

Then you get to work and go upstairs and lose yourself in email, but that humble and lottery winning feeling prevails. And you think about writing your fantastic spouse the love letter of the century, but you can't quite make the words sound anything other than schlocky.

So you just dwell in that quiet, humble, post-cry space and tell people that your allergies are acting up when they ask what is wrong with you.

But it's not the allergies...it's that damn 1970's song that got a hold of you...

...

Does this ever happen to you? Or is this just me? (And perhaps some helpful female hormones)

I have owned, at one time or another, pretty much everything that Polaroid has done. In fact, I believe the first camera I ever owned was an instamatic, a Christmas present, and I *loved* it.

I've owned the iZone (two of them, actually) that made tiny photos, the Joy Cam that made medium sized photos and everything in between.

I also love disposables. If I attend a wedding, I'll totally find a way to grab the disposables off the table and take weird photos for the bride and groom. My special present, I guess.

But then...a couple years ago, I invested in real camera equipment and lenses. Been having a blast with them, too.

Earlier this week, while perusing the "recommended for you" section on Amazon, I became introduced to the next generation of fun cameras.

Lomography is what they call the photos taken with cameras made by Lomographische AG, an Austrian company.

These little beauties aren't new...the cheapie cameras have been around a long time, I'm just finally climbing on board.

These are cheaply made and intentionally so. They have light leaks and other issues which gives each camera its own individual imprint. They are frightfully old fashioned, taking 35mm film and a working knowledge of how to load and use a camera.

And I *love* these cameras. I got three different kinds, but have only really gotten the chance to experiment with the one they call the "Action Sampler".

This guy has four different lenses that fire in succession giving four images on one frame of film. All done mechanically, no electronics on the camera, not even a flash.

March 25, 2009

So things have been a bit maudlin at the ol' work place these days. Our fabulous little company is being bought and merged into a much larger company.

Change. Whatta kick.

For me, being the new kid, this is all very much "ok...what next?" I took these changes into account when I took the job, expected it, haven't gotten too settled into the "old ways" and can only just ride along the tide.

For people who have worked here for a while, it's a different sentiment. They've seen this company grow and change and expand and there is much worry about what the new owners mean.

So it's been tough. I'm a naturally exuberant sort, so all this new change is very exciting to me.

Today, they wanted to have a day whereby everyone wears something with the company logo on it, thus to drum up morale, I think. They give away enough schwag here, this shouldn't be a tough request.

So I complied. Put on my company logo shirt and came to work to find most of my poopy coworkers didn't comply. They'd rather be weiners than step up and have some fun. (and I told them all as much!)

Sometimes it's hard to be me....

This me = exuberant and they = notsomuch is one of the pitfalls of my new job. My "energy" is often commented upon, both plus and minus.

But today I found "my people"...I had a meeting in another building, so climbed onboard the shuttlebus and wound up meeting three folks from field sales. These people are out in the trenches selling our product and making this company some money.

And they have SPIRIT! Man, just a twenty minute bus ride with them and I am ALL fired up about how cool my company is and what we're about. They complimented me on my logo shirt, asked where they could get one, said they were so happy to talk with someone at the home office and just generally made me feel like I belong, despite having only been at the company a few months.

That was pretty cool. I don't think I have the natural exuberance of a sales person, but I feel a lot better about who I am in the context of my job today.

Unfortunately, I had to come back to poop-head central. Maybe if I keep workin' on them, they'll get spirit too?

March 23, 2009

You know, the more popular online stores, the Amazons and the iTunes of the world are getting more sinistersneaky creative.

They have started these "recommended for you" features or "just for you" picks.

The choices are based on what you have looked at or bought in the past. iTunes also looks at your current library to make recommendations.

Which is both cool and diabolical because it makes me buy more. I mean, they find stuff I may not have thought of! I've dropped serious coin after an hour on the "just for you" feature on iTunes.

So when I'm bored, I'll go over and take a gander to see what's recommended. Maybe I'll make a new find!

However...I'm starting to get nervous about just what, exactly, my "recommended for you" lists say about me.

Here is an actual screen capture of my actual "Just for You" list on iTunes:

This does not say "hip cat". This does not say "cutting edge". This does not say "wow, you are the person people want to be like".

This says...you are lame as hell and listen to the kind of music they play in the elevators around the world.

I can't even debate the choices. I *adore* Roger Miller, I already own that Lynn Anderson, and I've been known to favor a tune or ten by Mickey Gilley. I used to own that Goo Goo Dolls (but wearied of them) and that Michael McDonald song is one of my all time favorites. Oh and that song "Wildfire"...well, it brings a tear to the eye every time.

Fine. I'm a dork. Whatever.

This is like going to the dentist with teeth you are pretty sure are spotless and then they make you chew that red tablet and show you just how god awful dirty your teeth really are.

I think this whole getting used to being married thing is harder than I anticipated.

I started thinking about this at about 2:00 am last night (this morning?).

That was when I woke up cold and teetering on the edge of my bed.

See, I share my queen-sized with two others, one human, one feline. And somehow, I'm getting the fuzzy end of this lollipop.

I woke up this morning pretty cranky. I tried to tug on the blanket to cover my shivering shoulders, but to no avail, it wouldn't budge.

So I assessed the situation. Turns out my six feet two inch husband was soundly asleep, and had arranged himself, roughly, into a right angle in our bed.

Yes, full on 90 degrees, the fulcrum of which was well over on my side of the bed. And by fulcrum, of course, I mean his big ol' bootay shoved over that invisible line that has kept the peace in marriages for centuries.

On my side. Long limbed brotha was taking up a full three quarters of the entire bed.

And then, as if dotting the i, at the apex of the fulcrum rested our fourteen pound feline, limbs akimbo, thus taking up about half of the remaining quarter of the bed I got to inhabit.

I generally try not to disturb people when fast asleep, because I ask the same courtesy, so I tried just to make do. For about five minutes.

Then I got mad. And said aloud, "I'm taking back the night!"

Floppy cat was lifted and relocated. Good. Getting movement from the boy was going to take more thought.

So I went in for the nuzzle. The plan was, I nuzzle, and as he turns to return it, he will shift that bootay back over into the demilitarized zone.

It worked perfectly.

Then, as he turned, I tugged with all I had on the blanket, thus unloosening endless folds of blanket.

Yes. Success!

Happier with the more obtuse angle of the husband and the relocated location of the feline, I wrapped as much blanket around me as possible, dug in firmly in my space, turned my back on everyone, and went back to sleep.

You know...when I was single, I was able to flop like a starfish in the middle of my bed and sleep all night, undeterred.

March 17, 2009

I remember that day. St. Paddy's Day, 2007. Yes, a magical day by all accounts.

No leprechauns leaped. No green beer was guzzled. No four-leaf clovers were molested.

But I did have the luck of the Irish : wink :

It was on this date, two years ago, that Oh Fair New Mexico breathed its first blog post.

It was The Good Man who first suggested the theme for my blog. He went with the "write what you know" angle, and it worked. Ok, more often than not, this blog is my personal ramblings and not really NM related, but that's ok too. I took the idea and ran with it, as they say.

I'd wanted to write a blog for the discipline of writing something every day. I wanted more than an extensive journal rat-a-tapped in Word and kept on my hard drive. I wanted a place to publicly air my thoughts and twisted ideas.

I remember in the beginning, I timidly sent Avelino Maestas an email asking for advice. His blog seemed so freaking cool, what with his gorgeous photographs interspersed with is his witty, smart writing. I had NO idea how to blog, and Avelino very kindly gave me some pointers and encouragement and then out of the nest I fell to test my own ideas.

So here I am at 532 blog posts later and I think my wings are getting a bit stronger.

My work as a writer has increased IMMENSELY because of the discipline of writing this blog every weekday. Some days I cramp up for ideas and then I force myself to write something anyway, even if it's terrible. Some days, I have more ideas than I can put down in writing.

Often, my loving husband (who was but a boyfriend when this whole thing began) will say, "I can't believe you blogged about that" (most recent example was about the toilets at a restaurant we visited).

Occasionally I have blogged about something that hits me on a very deep emotional level, and I know that maybe no one wants to hear me, but I have to say it anyway.

My most popular post thus far caught me off guard. I wrote it for me, the melancholy of a NM ex-pat longing for home at the holidays. But it evidently struck a chord with some of the folks back home, too.

So I continue on with my blog. It's for me. It's for you. It's for New Mexico. Each year I go through the agony of missing where I come from and reconciling to where I live now. The ebb and flow of life.

For all the folks who give me a read now and then, thank you. I actually cannot properly express my gratitude. As someone trying very hard to make a go as a writer, any pair of eyes on anything I write is a genuine gift.

I realize that these sort of blogiversary posts are rather self-congratulatory. Heck, in the midst of all the rejection letters I get from publishers..if I don't pat my ownself on the back, who else is gonna do it for me?

By the way...The Good Man has promised me a dinner at a really nice restaurant when I get 100 visitors in one day on this blog. The closest I've come is 88. So my goal in the third year of blogging is to finally collect on that dinner! I know ya'll can help me with my cause!

Meanwhile, Oh Fair New Mexico, you still sing a song in my heart. You and me, we are one. Thanks for the inspiration and for my humble beginnings.

March 16, 2009

"Utah State benched its mascot for Saturday night's championship game between the Aggies and Nevada a day after "Big Blue" the bull...confronted the cowboy mascot and ripped off his fake mustache after a man wearing a Nevada shirt at the game offered $100 to the student in the costume modeled after Paul Bunyan's Blue Ox if he would do so."

This, the next in my line of roadway rants. See my four way stop discussion here.

This weekend The Good Man and I had occasion to take a bit of a road trip. Just down Highway 1, a small jaunt in order to meet up with a whole passel of my in-laws. (passel being smaller than a gang but larger than a group)

As we drove, in many instances, we were forced to merge, to turn, to navigate our way carefully through the highways and byways of the Bay Area.

I noticed, as The Good Man drove, he always, very politely, gives a wave when someone does him the favor of letting him into a lane, or allows him to turn in a busy, congested area, or stops to let him through.

I also noticed that when The Good Man generously does the same for others, he rarely gets a wave of thanks and recognition in return.

Politeness, it seems, is on the soon-to-be extinct list.

This makes me cranky.

Sure, I know that a polite wave isn't required by any driving laws. I'll have you know that when I had to take that drivers safety class to work the points off from a speeding violation, it was often suggested that a polite wave was much appreciated by others on the road. That acknowledging each other actually makes us drive better.

I shall tack on a quick rant: Upon employment here at my new job, I tried, in vain, for two weeks to say hello to the security guard on the first floor who I must walk directly past EVERY day. It seems strange not to acknowledge another human you see five of every seven days of your life. But he will NOT say hello to me. Will. Not. It kind of hurts my feelings.....

I actually think that is a little bit ingenious....except for the part about "An alert inspector noticed that only a few of the cans were labeled, and that the weight printed on the side of the cans didn't match the actual weight..."

March 9, 2009

I have a milestone birthday coming up in May. It is an age I'm not sure I'm happy about being.

Ok, fine, I have to get old. Everyone does it (barring the alternative, of course). I'm ok with it.

Until I'm reminded clearly and plainly how old and out of it I am.

It began, this past weekend, with the shopping excursion to procure new jeans (see previous post for my thoughts on that). While out and about, I wandered into a store called Anchor Blue.

I'd seen an article in a trashy gossip magazine last week while at the dentist's office about "the best jeans." There was a pair of Anchor Blue jeans featured that looked like I'd be happy with them.

So. Anchor Blue. I'd seen the store but had never actually been inside before.

Well. If you go to the webpage (linked above) you'll see several fresh, dewey-faced CHILDREN on the splash page, showing you just how cool and beautiful YOU can be if you wear their clothing.

Walking into the store, I practically coughed dust and picked cryptkeeper tendrils from my person as I looked around and the clerks looked at me.

I did, actually, pick out a few pairs of jeans to try on, none of them the fabulous pair I'd seen in the magazine, of course.

So, yes, happily, the jeans I'd picked fit me. Well. Sort of. I mean, I could get them on and button them.

But to look in the mirror, you could see clearly where the jeans ended (below my hipbones) and my (evidently) granny panties continued on.

Now, I don't wear old lady briefs (yet)...what I wear are respectable cotton bikini chones. But in the spotlight of Logan's Run (In case you missed that film, everyone is executed at age 30), my respectable bikini yonderwear appear to be practically up to my ribcage (just below what they must believe to be my sagging boobs).

I may as well give over to the white belt and Velcro shoes ferchrissakes!

So I gave up on those jeans, but continued to look around the store. I checked out accessories.

They had quite the assortment of Che Guevara-style caps for the ladies. I want to look like an Argentinean communist revolutionary why again?

I looked at skirts. I have this little cloth that I use to clean my glasses. That cloth is larger than these "skirts." Even if I could get a lens cloth skirt to fit me...no, it's too terrible, I can't even go there.

Fine. Thus ended my shopping trip.

Sunday rolled around and The Good Man and I traveled up to Muir Beach to meet with some friends. "Take a walk," they said. Oh, sure, yes! A walk on a sunny day would be nice. Maybe even help me work off some calories in hopes of wearing that lens cloth to dinner!

These folks are all about my same age...well, TGM and his best friend are a year younger. And the best friend's wife is a couple years younger still. Ok, so I'm the matron of the bunch, what of it?

So we walk on the beach a bit and then decide to hike a trail. Fun!

An uphill trail.

What?

So evidently that one-year age difference between TGM's and me is a huge gap, because all of my friends scampered up the hill while I was in the back gasping for air and feeling my thighs wobbling.

Now, the other lady in our group is in knockout shape, I forgive her. But TGM and his buddy have no excuse. They billy-goated they way up the hill with ease, leaving me with hands on knees feeling like I was going to puke.

I was further insulted when a tiny fourteen year-old dog named Chester paced me, turned and ran halfway back down the hill to greet his people, then turned around and paced me again.

His legs are three inches long!

Damn you Chester!

Now it is Monday and my legs hurt. My lungs still burn a little and I'm faced with my group of fifteen employees, not a ONE of them over the age of 30.

I remember 30. That was a good year. My thirties...yes, a fine decade. *sigh*

March 7, 2009

I'm going to do something that I pretty much figured I'd never do. I'm going to post a photo of myself, unretouched, without any makeup or clean up whatsoever. I'm doing so because it helps make the point of my story.

I find myself the unwitting victim of a sociological experiment.

As mentioned here, I had some heavy dental work done on Monday. The tooth is healing fine, still a little cold sensitive, but all in, healing well.

However, in the process of giving numbing injections so the dentist could work on my tooth, he accidentally hit a blood vessel in my cheek.

So, as expected, the vessel bled out leaving me a bruise below the skin, which, due to gravity, has traveled to my jawline.

As this week has progressed, the swelling has gone down and the tooth has improved but the bruise has gotten blacker and meaner looking.

I'm feeling fine but my face is a mess.

Today, I ventured out into the world to try to find some new spring clothes for work. Because I am a cheap ass b*stard, I went to the "discount fashions for less!" type of stores to shop. Make my dollars go farther.

Fascinating sort of clientele you get in the low, low price kind of stores.

The kind that yell at the fitting room lady because she miscounted their stack of clothes. The kind that shout angrily to all in the store, "C'mon honey, let's leave, the line is too long, this is ridiculous!!" (both of these stories are true).

Yeah, so I'm out in the world looking at work pants and minding my business. Me being me, inside my own body, I don't see the bruise on my face unless I look in a mirror. What I do see are people's reactions to me. I am continually reminded I have a beat up looking face.

I am reasonably certain that a fair percentage of the society I have encountered thinks that some guy has hurt me. At least I suppose that is what they think...I can't read minds...much.

I guess I can't blame them in their assumption, but what a sad commentary on how we live our lives. The whole Rhianna/Chris Brown thing is top headline news right now, so everybody has an opinion.

From a sociological standpoint, here's what is interesting. Today I went to six different stores and encountered fellow customers, fitting room attendants, store clerks and cashiers, all of them women.

Older ladies, say 50 and above, looked at me with sympathy. I got a kind of "I've been there, honey" look, and they would treat me with kid gloves. Called me "dear" and patted my hand.

Younger women, 30 or less, treated me with disgust. Most wouldn't meet my eyes or would narrow their eyes at me when I approached. I even had a young lady, another customer, look at me, stare at my bruise, then turn her head and say "ugh!", shrug her shoulders and walk away.

I don't know what this means. I do know that it is kind of freaking me out. It's also playing hell with my self-esteem.

As a woman, I have a profound bit of fear and healthy respect for women who have lived through the torment of an abuser in the form of a boyfriend or a husband. I am not that woman. I want to yell to all who will hear "It was my dentist, for chrissakes!," but really, at the end of the day, no one cares. We all just want to cast a judgment and go on about our bargain shopping day.

March 6, 2009

A couple weeks ago, The Good Man and I took the Fabulous Mom-in-Law out to dinner at a really beautiful San Francisco restaurant (if you know the area, it is located at the Marina, at Fort Mason, right on the water, with stunning views of the Golden Gate.)

As I enjoyed the "wine pairings" with my meal, this meant that it wasn't long before I had to take myself and my walnut sized bladder to the ladies room.

With business complete, I went to flush the toilet and was presented with...a choice.

The top of the toilet had a button that was divided in two. One side said .9 The other side said 1.6

And I thought to myself...is this a .9 or 1.6 sized event?

Hell if I know!

Well, TMI and all that, but I determined it was really only a .9 sized event so I pushed that one. Then, when that was done, giddy with all this decision making and wondering how big a 1.6 flush was, I hit the other button.

Then realized that this ingenious toidy is supposed to save water. So what did I do? Gratuitously flushed, that's what I did. And used up 2.5.

Oh the humanity!

As the old saying goes, you can dress me up, but you can't take me out...

You see, I have this little morning ritual. A morning check in, if you will. First I get on the scale. Then I check my investment account.

This had been going good for a while. One was going down, one was going up and that gave me a self-satisfied smirk to start the day.

Since, oh, about November, one is still going up and one is still going down, but not in that "isn't it great to me be" kind of way. More in that lurch of the stomach at the twist in the roller coaster kind of way.

The ubiquitous "they" say you shouldn't weigh yourself every day. "Too much fluctuation" they say.

March 3, 2009

Anyhow, I seem to have learned to use a fabulous power first taught to me in my youth.

The power of guilt.

Oh yes.

First example:

The center dial on my bathtub is broken, meaning that it will only shower, it won't bath. This is upsetting. I am a fan of the hot bath. Especially in the winter. Particularly when it's cold and stormy outside as it is today.

This has gone unfixed for quite some time, despite reporting it dutifully to my landlord. He said, "I need to find a new set of knobs...I'll get to it."

And he didn't.

The landlord's son lives a street over and came by our place about an electrical problem two weeks ago. So I bugged him to bug his dad about the bathtub. The son promised he'd fix it himself.

He didn't.

A couple weeks passed.

This weekend, the son was mowing our front lawn. I said, "sorry to ask, but I need to remind you about the bathtub."

This young man was *immediately* doused deeply in sheepish guilt, he apologized a bunch and promised to fix the bathtub, which he did on Sunday morning. And apologized some more.

Aaaah. Guilt is good.

Next example:

After my dental work yesterday, I woke up with a swollen face and a nifty bruise on my cheek. I'm thrilled to have to explain this to my coworkers.

My dentist, being the kind sort that he is, emailed me today to check to see how I was doing after the work. I emailed him back a photo of my bruised face and suggested he won't be getting any new referrals from my coworkers.

He called me right away and apologized profusely and told me this sometimes happens (nicked a blood vessel when he did the injections) and that he felt terrible this had happened.

A man who inflicts severe pain for a living feels *terrible*.

Heh.

This feels gooood. I'm learning what my mom has known for years...guilt is quite the propellant.

In case you are still in training wheels and need to learn how to properly give the guilt, here's a wikihow to get you over the hump.

March 2, 2009

Sorrowfully, I had occasion to visit with my dentist of twelve years today. He's a good guy and when you have that kind of trust with a dental professional, you don't take it lightly.

The reason for my visit today wasn't an easy peasy cleaning and check up, no. A couple weeks ago I bit down on something hard and felt pain shoot up the side of my face.

That *can't* be good.

So I was unsurprised when the good Doctor told me I had three cracks in my tooth. The same tooth that was home to not one but two fillings.

Feeling myself headed for "you need a crown"-ville, my dentist looked at my xrays and said, "good news, we can use the machine."

The Machine?

What the [insert dental-fear inspired curse word here] is "The Machine?"

I guess if you need something more than a drill and fill, but something less than a crown, they have this cool device that takes a scan of your scraped out tooth, then creates a puzzle piece-like filling that slips right in there.

It's milled out of a block of dental porcelain right there onsite, same day.

So the dentist drilled out my tooth, and then I read a magazine while the machine churned and groaned and soon enough, they showed me the little piece of tooth looking porcelain. Add a little dental glue and ta daa! New tooth!

As The Machine worked, my dentist talked about science's ability to make new body parts, like my homemade tooth. He said, "I laugh when people get up in arms over athletes using steroids to increase their body's capabilities. In ten to twenty years they will be making new joints, ligaments and tendons, you name it. Athletes can be created, and steroids will be looked on as quaint."

I replied, "That's weird, man. In a good way, but weird."

Oh well, in about an hour and a half all in, I was fixed up and sent on my way with a droopy drool-y smile and a bit of ache in my freshly manufactured body part.

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About Me

Raised most of my life in New Mexico, I moved to Northern California in 1997. My friends don't call me a Californian, they say I'm a New Mexican living in California. I think that's true. For about two years after moving, I distanced myself from my home state thinking it backward and remote. Then I began to visit home more frequently and truly learned to love my home state only by gaining perspective. I'm a writer, a painter, a photographer and labor at a "real job" during the days.